


Stars So Close

by Raphaela_Crowley



Series: The Starlight Eyes Collection [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Stardust (2007), Stardust - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Family, Friendship, Gen, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley
Summary: A beacon of hope for a fallen angel, a missing star in the night sky, a comet passing through London, she comes into Crowley and Aziraphale's shared lives briefly, every twenty years or so. But the world is changing, as all things do with time, and she and her angels will have to change along with it. Even if it means moving on.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Yvaine
Series: The Starlight Eyes Collection [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825057
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61
Collections: Favorite GO Fics





	Stars So Close

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cafelatte100](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cafelatte100/gifts).



> A/N: Gift-fic for Cafelatte100.

Stars So Close

A _Good Omens_ & _Stardust_ Fanfiction

Of all the stars the red-haired angel had ever made – or helped make – she was, very probably, his favourite. She was a prominent evening star, and she had a temper to match her maker's fiery hair, but she never deliberately steered anyone wrong – leastwise, not purposefully. She was – overall – a _good_ little star, with just enough of the occasional malicious twinkle to be worth liking.

After the creation of the earth, it became as much – if not more – of a custom with the stars to watch the people on it, their doings and misadventures, as it was to the angels.

Before that, however, the stars – ever the intrigued spectators – were always looking for _something_ to observe. Usually it was the times, as they changed.

And, with change, there often came beauty and grace and new creations and a stretching of the universe like a pulled taffy or fine gauze.

All very _good_ things.

But then, one day, change brought the ugliest thing they could have imagined. It brought rebellion, which birthed war.

The star did not like War, especially not after they met in person, and – if only it were possible – would have done anything in her power to frustrate the smug bitch's plans and devices.

Stars, naturally, had no need of war. All stars consider the moon their mother (they love her so dearly for her brightness, for her constant faith, they readily forgive her lack of atmosphere or nightlife), and they have no fathers apart from their individual makers, so they're siblings.

Sibling rivalry had not been invented in those days.

Sometimes those stars would peek from _the heavens_ into _Heaven_ – the dwelling place of the angels and God – to see what they were up to.

And when the rebellion started, nobody noticed how a certain evening star bit her glimmering, translucent fingernails and watched anxiously as two sides formed. No one noticed how she shone less brightly when she found the angel she was looking for, clearly on the _wrong_ side.

She tried to get him a message, tried to warn him it couldn't possibly end well, but it was difficult to get in to talk to an angel unless they contacted you first. Stars could look into Heaven, that was all right, but they weren't allowed to wander – let alone stay and speak to anyone. It was the angels who were meant to come to _them_ , and none of them were bothering.

She managed to get the attention of a fussy principality she'd taken note of and decided was pleasant enough, if a bit odd, by blinking her light on and off in a rudimentary form of something resembling what humans would later call Morse Code, thinking she'd get him to take a message to the red-haired angel _for_ her.

A frustrated-looking archangel with violet eyes intercepted him and demanded to know just what he thought he was doing.

"There's a blinking star, Gabriel, didn't you notice? It appears to be–"

And, cutting him off, the archangel irately told the principality to get back to his platoon before he demoted him for stargazing when they were meant to be preparing for battle.

The star swore under her breath. She could do nothing but wait.

She saw it, when her angel fell, when he was cast out.

Some of her nearest neighbour-stars turned away – they couldn't bear it, or else they were angry at the falling angels for _causing_ this ugly scene. But _her_ eyes could no sooner depart from that one angel among all the others than her heart could have departed unaided from her chest.

Around him, the other fallen angels – the ones that fell faster – were sinking into a pool of burning sulphur. It changed them – it made them what they already were, what they were the moment they picked the wrong side. It made them demons. All that was beautiful about them was stripped away in the fire. Their love, their creativity, their imagination... Even their eyes turned black, emptied of anything that wasn't hatred and rage.

The star was waiting, brokenly, for it to happen to him. She was waiting to _mourn_ him, knowing he'd be gone forever. She was like a child sitting by the sickbed of a parent, knowing the last moment was nigh yet unable to stop her heart leaping with burning, painful hope when – each time she thought it was surely the last one – there came another shaky breath.

"All I did," he bellowed, unheard over the whirling, vacuum of a din by anyone apart from his favourite star, whose inner ear was always tuned into him, "was _ask questions_!"

The red-haired angel nearly bellyflopped against the sulphur, turning himself about – almost miraculously – at the last possible moment and staring through the infernal smoke, even as it choked him, at the sky above – at the stars, at _her_.

She cried a name that had been his but no longer belonged to him.

He whimpered, " _Yvaine_."

"Look at me," she said, at last. "Just keep looking at me."

"Hurts."

"I know, I know it hurts – just keep your eyes on me – don't close them." She couldn't bear the thought that they should close, that they should reopen a moment later and be black.

He sniffed, and choked, and then he gagged. But he didn't take his eyes off her; he let them fill with her light as she shone as brightly as she could.

"Take it," she murmured, "take a little of my light with you into your new life – for good, or for evil." _Just don't_ die _– not entirely, not for_ real _._

His eyelids did eventually close, though not of his own volition. He was still, unmoving, half-sunk, partially floating on the boiling lava.

His gingery lashes fluttered as a rasping gasp emerged from his chest. The eyes that reopened were not black, like those of the other demons, but a rich, darkly yellowed amber.

They were starlight eyes, the colour of a star when it is frightened yet holds on to the frailest of hopes against all the odds.

* * *

_Highgate Cemetery, London, 1856:_

"I can't find her," said Crowley.

"Er, I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale straightened his camel hair coat, pulling the lapel up around his neck, bundling against the biting nighttime air of the cemetery.

The demon motioned at a large brass telescope he'd set up to his left beside a warmly glowing oil lantern. "There's an evening star missing."

"What, in the sky?"

"No, Aziraphale," sneered Crowley, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "in the ocean several miles from here – I just like walking about in graveyards with telescopes." He glowered, ripping off his sunglasses. "Of _course_ in the sky!"

The angel rolled his eyes. "Someone's a bit tetchy this evening."

"Look for yourself." Crowley handed him a piece of paper. "These are the coordinates of where she's supposed to be."

Aziraphale read the paper, folded it neatly, then bent over to look through the telescope. "Confound it." He squinted into the eyepiece, screwing his face into an expression of frustration and reaching a hand up to straighten his cream-coloured top hat, which had gone slightly askew when he leaned forward. "Crowley, I can't see anything – it's one great big blur – how does this work? How does one navigate?"

"Here." Crowley adjusted it for him.

"Ah, yes. Thank you, my dear." The angel let out a small sigh. "That's much better." He scanned the skies. "Well, I don't see your star, but that doesn't mean there's anything amiss. Perhaps it's the smog – it's _very_ strong around London this time of year, you know. If you went into the countryside, I'm quite certain..."

"She's _missing_ , I tell you."

"If you don't mind my asking, why are you so worried about this particular star?" Aziraphale pulled away from the telescope and looked at his friend. "I didn't even realise you _owned_ a telescope before tonight, let alone that you were such an astronomer."

"What," he hissed, "demons aren't allowed to have hobbies?"

"I didn't mean _that_ ," Aziraphale chided gently. "You know I didn't."

Crowley reached up and rubbed his chin, groaning lightly. "It's nothing, angel."

"You wouldn't have asked me to come if it was nothing."

"I wish I hadn't."

" _Crowley_!"

"I'm sorry, just–" the demon broke off. "If you hear anything, from your lot, about the star..." He stared up into the darkness. "You'll tell me, won't you?"

"Of course," he replied, as if astonished the question even needed asking, that the answer wasn't obvious.

Crowley felt an odd, warm sensation spreading in his chest. Despite his worry over Yvaine's sudden disappearance, he almost felt...

"We have the Arrangement," Aziraphale added, unwittingly just about breaking his demon friend's heart.

The warm sensation was gone, replaced by an icy feeling of bitter rejection. For a moment, a foolish moment that made him go prickly all over as it slipped from present into past, Crowley had honestly thought the angel would tell him because he _wanted_ to – not because of their long-standing business Arrangement.

"Right." He refused to let his disappointment show. "Thank you for coming." His tone went stiff and formal, cracking a little as he crouched down to pick up the lantern and began walking to the gate, the angel having no choice but to pick up the telescope and follow him if he didn't want to be left in the dark. "I appreciate you replying to my message on such short notice."

Neither of them knew it, but the very next time they saw each other – in only six more years, at St James's Park – would be the last for quite a while.

* * *

_One hundred & eleven years later... _

"You go too fast for me, Crowley."

And – his intended task completed – Aziraphale got out of the Bentley, standing there unaware – probably – that Crowley was watching him in his rearview mirror.

To the demon as he sped away, the neon sign in a nearby shop window, flashing on and off about Aziraphale's head, looked like it could be the angel's halo.

Of _course_ Aziraphale didn't want anything to do with him – it was only _natural_ he refused his offer of a lift. Arrangement or no Arrangement, they were still demon and angel, respectively. Of course he'd rather walk than be in a car driven by a demon with a lead foot.

But, then, he'd given him the Holy Water. After everything he'd said. If _that_ didn't prove he _cared_ , despite it all, well... Still. Too _fast_? Really?

Crowley snorted to himself, shaking his head and putting his foot even more firmly down on the gas pedal.

He hadn't the foggiest idea what the mad principality was _talking_ about! He'd offered a lift from Point A to a Point B of Aziraphale's choosing; he hadn't suggested they move in together, get a set of bunk beds installed in the flat, and go gadding about London in broad bloody daylight arm-in-arm!

It was just a ride in a car, for Heav– for Hel– for _some place's_ sake!

The way Aziraphale looked at him sometimes, with increasing fear in his soft, kind eyes – not _of_ him (Crowley could have lived with _that_ , demons were meant to thrive on that kind of fear) but _for_ him – was unbearable.

Crowley made a sharp right turn and was zooming down a street that was not so brightly lit as the one he'd left behind. There were no neon signs here, the unassuming residences only illuminated by a handful of – generously spaced – gaslights.

He didn't have his lights on; being a demon, he could see perfectly well in the dark.

There was a flash in the middle of the road. A bright light rose up from a mere glitter into something far more brilliant – it flared silver and gold, then it vanished, and something struck the front of the Bentley and, cursing, slumped down against the grille with a _thud_.

Crowley wasn't in the mood for this. He got out, already in his worst temper, face drawn very tight, and slammed the door behind himself. "Oi! What the Heaven do you think–"

"My leg! You've hurt it. What were you trying to do, you numbskull, _break_ it?" trilled a female voice that – despite striking him as oddly familiar – the demon did not immediately place. "You hit me! Bloody _idiot_."

"No, I didn't," he snarled. " _You_ hit _me_." His hand rested briefly yet lovingly on the Bentley and a dent popped itself back out, preserving the car's perfect condition.

She staggered to her feet, struggling to regain her balance on her sore leg. With a sharp, angry groan, she smoothed back her long blonde hair – so fair in hue it was almost white – pulling it away from her face.

They got a proper look at each other then, and, gawking in total disbelief, both stopped in their tracks.

Crowley yanked off his sunglasses. His eyes, glowing yellow against the near pitch-black of the darkened roadside, stared into a pair of blue ones he had willed into existence countless eons ago.

"It's you," she breathed.

He opened his arms, and she ran into them. "There you are," murmured the demon, stroking her hair. "I've been wondering where you got off to." His favourite star had been missing for over a century – there hadn't been a word, not so much as a _whisper_ , about Yvaine since that damnable evening in 1856 when he'd first noticed her absence in the sky.

The star leaned against him, listening to his heartbeat. When she pulled back, she looked up into his eyes again. "They look a bit different down here, but they definitely suit you."

He grinned at her. "Where have you _been_?"

"It's a long story," she sighed, a little breathlessly, so happy the air around her was starting to lighten, her face shining radiantly.

"Well, we've got all night." Crowley – practically _skipping_ – made his way back to the Bentley and opened the passenger side. "Get in, starshine."

* * *

"Could you _please_ slow down?" gasped Yvaine, digging her glowing fingernails into the passenger seat's upholstery.

"What?" Crowley turned his head to look at her, pouting.

"The _road_!" she shrieked, reaching out and gesturing madly at the windscreen. "Watch the road!"

" _Ugggh_ ," he groaned, "you sound like Aziraphale."

"Yes, how _is_ your dearest friend doing?"

He looked at her again, brow raised in faux-innocence.

"Oh, don't give me that – I watched you meet in Eden, and I watched you come up with your Arrangement." She gave him a wry smirk. "I even helped you meet on dark nights. That poor principality of yours has a bloody _awful_ sense of direction, you know."

"Believe me, I _know_."

"I could have _sworn_ you picked some of those rendezvous locations deliberately to confuse him."

Crowley threw back his head and laughed, a smidgen maniacally.

"Don't worry," she added, softly. "I'll never tell anyone."

"I know you wouldn't."

"There were moments when watching the two of you – seeing how much you loved each other, even when you were meant to be on opposite sides – was the only thing that made looking down here bearable."

"What _happened_ to you?"

She breathed in deeply, slowly exhaling before she could bring herself to speak again. "I _fell_ – a weird bloody necklace came out of nowhere and knocked me out of the heavens when I was minding my own business."

"You didn't try to find a way back?"

Her eyes drifted down to her hand in her lap – her left hand, on which she wore a gold wedding ring.

"You got married," he realised, astonished. "To...a human...?"

She nodded.

He granted her a rare, snaky blink, then directed his gaze back out the windscreen. "Should I ask what his name is?"

"His name was Tristan."

"And he's..."

" _Gone_ ," she whispered, placing her right hand over her left and running a finger over the gold band. "He died of old age a long time ago."

"I'm so sorry." Humans came and went so quickly – and there had been several he'd _liked_ , in spite of himself. Loving one – particularly in the manner in which Yvaine loved her husband – and then losing them...as would be inevitable... It didn't bear thinking about.

She reached up and brushed away her tears. Her blurred gaze steadied itself on the window, slowly clearing and focusing. "Did someone shoot at your car?"

" _Wot_?" The Bentley skidded; thanks to Crowley's quick hands on the wheel, it narrowly avoided going straight into a ditch.

The star pointed, confusedly. "You've got bullet-holes on your window."

" _Nooo_ ," Crowley said, the raised tension in his shoulders visibly easing; "they're transfers. I got those for free when they were promoting _James Bond_ – only time I ever bought petrol."

"They look stupid," she told him.

He was somewhat offended. "Well, _I_ quite fancy them."

* * *

_Mayfair, 1990:_

Shifting a tartan tin of shortbread biscuits under his arm, Aziraphale reached out and poked his exquisitely manicured fingers through the decorative brass coils of the metal snake wrapped around the button for the buzzer to Crowley's flat.

The hallway was so _dark_. The angel wondered why they always kept this building looking like such a dungeon. Crowley had tried to explain it to him, once or twice, something about it being in style. Aziraphale didn't know a lot about style, as his tastes in fashion – on the odd occasion they found their way into the 20th century – were firmly wedged somewhere in the 1950s, but per his understanding white walls and glowing neon tubes were all the rage now – and something about radios with very big speakers, that came into it somewhere, he thought – not walls that looked like they'd been pinched from the Bastille or the Château d'lf.

But, then, Crowley insisted, and it was Crowley's place – none of _his_ business. Aziraphale had really only been here once or twice before, anyway. The angel never felt comfortable here, knowing what his side would think if they found out he visited a place like this, and to see a demon socially no less. It probably wasn't any safer having Crowley over at the bookshop, but – whether it made proper sense or not – Aziraphale always _felt_ safer seeing him there. The shelves were like protective fortresses, keeping them safe from their respective offices. The walls here were like cells, far from the most reassuring imagery.

He was only here now because Crowley had telephoned him; there was something he needed to see – he'd said – and it would only be here for a short time.

Aziraphale had tried to ask if it couldn't wait, or be brought around to the shop after closing, perhaps.

"It's like a passing comet, angel," the demon told him. "Once it's gone, it'll stay gone for a while."

"But, my dear fellow–"

With a loud _click_ , Crowley hung up, leaving Aziraphale in total suspense with nothing but puzzled intrigue and a grating dial tone.

So the angel had mustered up his courage and bought the biscuits, arranging them nicely in his favourite shortbread tin (you couldn't simply turn up at somebody's place of residence _empty-handed_ ), and made his way over.

There was a _briiinnggg_ noise as Aziraphale's fingertips pushed down gingerly on the button.

The door swung open, and a young woman who looked as though she'd just come out of the bath, in the process of fastening her dressing-gown, stood in the doorway.

"Oh." Aziraphale blushed. "So sorry. I appear to have rung the wrong flat – _again_." Though he'd been quite _certain_ Crowley's was the only one in the building with a snake over the buzzer. "Do excuse me." A pause. " _Er_... Oh, please accept these as an apology for disturbing you." He awkwardly thrust the shortbread tin into her raised hand before hastily turning to leave.

She called after him. "Aziraphale, wait!"

"How..." The angel whirled around. "How did you know my name?"

"Come on in." The young lady stepped out of the doorway, making room for him to enter.

"But I came to see..." he stammered, slowly stepping over the threshold nonetheless.

" _Crowley_ , yes, I know." She laughed merrily. "He's here."

"But...my good lady..."

" _Crowley_!" She called over her shoulder.

" _Wot_?" bawled an echoing voice from another room. "I just got into the bathroom – _somebody_ ahead of me just took two bloody hours to bathe."

"Aziraphale's here!"

"Well, _shit_." There came the sound of damp bare feet squeaking on tile and several doors banging in quick succession. "Damn it!"

" _Language_!" exclaimed Aziraphale, aghast.

Crowley appeared, sans sunglasses, looking inexplicably rumbled despite all of his clothes being in exactly the right places on his body as if literally grown there like a plant's leaves.

" _Hi_ , angel," he sighed. "I _meant_ to be out here before you turned up so I could make introductions, but _somebody_ used all the hot water." He glowered – not with any particular menace – at the young woman.

"You're a _demon_ – you could just perform a demonic miracle of some manner to heat up it again," Aziraphale pointed out.

"Yeah, but it's not the _same_ , is it?"

"Oh, he brought these for you." The young woman handed the shortbread tin to Crowley as he finished speaking.

"Thank you, angel." The demon popped the lid open and squinted inside. There were a lot of biscuits left, but the fact that one had to reach rather far down into the tin to get at them made him suspicious. "Were you eating these on the way over?"

Aziraphale self-consciously wiped a crumb off his chin. "I got peckish." He motioned at the young woman. "Who _is_ this?"

"D'you remember that night in Highgate Cemetery, when I told you a star was missing?" Crowley inclined his head in her direction. " _Well_."

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "Oh, goodness!" With a gallant flourish, he offered her his hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

She took it. "My name is Yvaine. I've known yours for years – I was wondering when I was finally going to meet you."

"And how do you know Crowley?"

"He ma–" she began.

"I'm _bored_." Crowley clapped his hands together. "Transcendentally bored. Let's all go _do_ something."

* * *

What they did was go for a fifteen-minute drive together – the three of them – in the Bentley to Kensal Green Cemetery.

Not the most cheerful of places, admittedly, only they couldn't agree on anywhere else, and Yvaine had a sister-in-law – Tristan's half-sister, Louisa, originally from a village called Wall but moved out to London later in her life – buried there.

Aziraphale brought along a Polaroid camera he found in Crowley's flat before they left; it had no film in it, because Crowley had forgotten about film when he purchased it, but it still whizzed out full-colour photographs anyway, and they were never blurry or accidentally of somebody's left shoe.

While Yvaine put a pretty little wreath of snowdrops on Louisa's grave, Aziraphale curiously examined the nearest mausoleum and – after a bit – discovered what he thought was rather a charming raised design of a winged hourglass.

"Crowley, look at that."

" _Eh_?" said Crowley.

"Would you mind taking our picture?" Aziraphale handed the camera to Yvaine, pulling a grumbling Crowley next to him so that the demon would be in the frame.

"Angel, what the Heaven–"

"Just say cheese, Crowley."

" _Cheese_."

It wasn't until the angel was back in his bookshop – beaming from having had such a _nice_ day with Crowley and the star, stomach full of shortbread, cheerily tacking the photograph to a cork board above his desk (and making a mental note to remove it before the next time Gabriel was scheduled for a visit) – that he realised Yvaine had been _deliberately interrupted_ before she could tell him how she and the demon knew each other.

"Oh, _Crowley_ ," he sighed, unable to make sense of it.

* * *

_Present Day:_

Crowley ran his index finger along the rim of the wineglass in front of him, his eyes – behind their dark sunglasses – straying, occasionally, to the door of the restaurant.

His star was meeting him here, and they both knew this might be their last get-together in London. They'd still keep up the tradition of seeing one another every twenty or thirty years or so, give or take, but they'd never have _these_ years – these mad, city-spotted years – ever again.

It wouldn't be the same. Not after this.

So the demon waited, a little nervously. He hummed show themes that had been stuck in his head all week under his breath; he glanced at the menu, staring down at it without actually reading it; he straightened – then disgustedly unstraightened – his perfectly aligned silverware.

A server asked him if his usual companion was going to be joining them this afternoon. Crowley told him no, that he was waiting on a lady. This seemed to rather confuse the server, though – knowing his job well enough not to comment on this confusion – he only _said_ , "Very good, sir."

She entered, finally, wearing blue, her long golden hair pulled into a twist and caught up with an ironic silver clip that looked like a shooting star. Her face shone, glowing brightly the moment she caught sight of him.

Crowley stood up and pulled out her chair for her.

The star hugged him, resting her chin warmly against his neck and – after pulling away partially – planting a quick, rough kiss on his cheek before sitting down.

When the server came to take their orders, Crowley ordered a large meal, big enough for two persons to share, in an attempt to cover up the fact that Yvaine ordered nothing for herself.

As the server said, "Very good, sir," again, and disappeared down the row of tables, Crowley arched a brow and looked at the star with an expression bordering on severity.

"Did we not," he said, in a tone a father might use to discourage his daughter from chewing her fingernails, "have a talk about you at least _pretending_ to eat and drink when we're in public?"

" _You_ talked," she replied, trailing her little finger along the tablecloth.

The demon grunted.

"How's Aziraphale?"

"He's well."

"I went past the bookshop on the way here – it's all boarded up." She shook her head. "I still can't believe he's really going to sell it to those developers."

"Eh, well, they've been hounding him for _years_ ," Crowley sighed. "Guess he finally took mercy on their pitiful, black souls. Anyway, book stores have been doing badly since the quarantine let up – and you _know_ how much Aziraphale hated selling his books anyway; it was always just a place to _keep_ them all..."

"So," asked the star, "when are you moving to Tadfield?"

Crowley grimaced. "About that... The thing _is_ , Aziraphale's got his heart set on this funny little cottage near Devil's Dyke. We took a look at it last week, and the poor bastard just about _lost his mind_ when he saw the built-in shelving."

"That's in Sussex."

" _Right_."

Her voice was shaky – though whether it was with fear, sadness, or else rage, was hard to tell. "I thought you'd both agreed that Tadfield was the best option – you've got the Youngs there, and Newton and Anathema – they've just _bought_ Jasmine Cottage outright, so you know they'll be staying around..."

"I know, Yvaine."

The server arrived with Crowley's food and began setting plates down and pouring wine into Crowley's glass. Yvaine put her hand over the top of hers so he'd leave it alone.

When he left them again, it was clear that the star's temper had been quietly simmering the entire time.

"What if something _happens_?" she all but exploded, struggling to keep her voice down. "What if Heaven or Hell decides–"

"Yvaine..."

"I can't believe you'd be so irresponsible. What in God's name were you–"

"Uh-uh..." Crowley sucked his teeth. "We're _not_ going to do this. Not today."

The star stared down at the place her plate should have been. "I just worry – you're the only the family I have left, Anthony." She rarely used the first name he'd picked out for himself (the last time had been more than half a century ago), and when she did, he knew she was serious.

"You could..." Crowley said, slowly, twisting his mouth, looking down at his plate. "You could come live _with_ us. Look after us. You know, make sure Aziraphale doesn't burn the cottage down baking all those recipes from his cookbooks while I'm out walking."

"Oh, no, really, I'm fine."

"If you say so." He was hurt by her outright refusal; for all his sins, he'd always tried to be good to her.

She reached across the table and touched his hand. "I'm not just going to come bursting in on your life like that after years of watching from afar."

"We wouldn't mind."

"I'll _visit_ , Crowley, every twenty years without fail," she promised. "You know I will." She smiled teasingly. "I've still got to teach Aziraphale the waltz. Last time, I told him about Captain Shakespeare teaching me and Tristan how to dance and he was fascinated."

Crowley shifted self-consciously in his seat. "You never taught _me_ to waltz."

"Aziraphale may have the natural dancing talent of a duck, but he's trainable – he's brilliant at the gavotte – whereas, _you_? You, my lonely angel? You're hopeless."

"Oi! I don't dance _that_ badly."

She sucked in her lips to struggle against a snorting, somewhat phlegmy laugh. "You _do_."

"We'll be all right, you know, just like we always are."

There were tears in her eyes; withdrawing her hand from Crowley's, she dashed them away with the back of her wrist. "I know you will."

And outside, the rain fell. It was a rainfall softened by the city and its skyline, a manner of rain that would – that surely _could_ – be nothing like the unpredictable rains the demon and angel would know in the countryside.

Yet Crowley, in his optimism, could see it as clearly as he could see the gentle pellets of water breaking into fireworks made of droplets against the restaurant's windowpane.

He could see – twenty, thirty years from this moment, having doubtless passed in a mere _blink_ – Aziraphale sitting by a roaring fire with a favourite book in his lap, a tartan blanket draped about his shoulders and a mug of steaming cocoa somewhere beside him. He could see himself pacing, back and forth, glancing from time to time at a clock on the sickeningly homey mantelpiece.

He would hear Yvaine's knock on the cottage door. His feet would cease their pacing, instead making a dash for the door and swinging it open.

And there she'd be, his star, soaked from the blinding rain, at their door, come to visit them at last.

Then – if she didn't already, if she was only _saying_ it – she would know, for an absolute certainty, that her angel and his principality were, and always would be, all right.

For right then, however, they sat looking at each other across a table that might as well have been as vast as the sky.

* * *

" _The stars look like they're so close, you could reach out and touch them. But you can't. Sometimes things look a lot closer than they are."_ – Kami Garcia, Beautiful Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Loads of thankyouthankyouthankyous to Cafelatte100 for letting me borrow her ideas about Crowley during the Fall.


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